Clean XXX OR High Quality Erotica Writer: UK or French Grade

Seeking experienced writer of erotica- Clean and High Quality; May involve mild bondage and BDSM/S&M/FMF and the like. Cannot be shy, cannot be slutty. High quality only. Men or Women accepted yet the work must be good.

Writing Sample IS Required Up Front. Requirements include at least two or three pages and...

1. Pay special attention to details such as; Descriptive words that are more than worth reading and are moving.

2. Details as such that they make the words melt off the pages; bringing to life every single word- in living colour- and into the readers' minds and their very souls.

3. Details such as sounds, fragrances, facial expressions, body positions, locations, scenery or the view from their vantage point, characters that are strong so that the imagery appears mentally all at once. It has been said that my words transport the reader to the place I intend to take them-a first class flight!

Happy writing and submission must be;

2 or three pages long and an either an introduction to an erotic letter to a lover, an introduction to an erotic book or article in a magazine.

Text format only please, unless you intend to use a graphic cover (remember- clean).

Consider your sample the way to get accepted as winning bidder. Consider this project an opportunity to do more work with us on a regular basis.

Samples should be very clean and neat.

We simply want to be inspired to write our own work. This is part of our creative process. We read concepts and themes and take off from there with our own original work.

Anton Turek heard Galiana Solsa’s seductively husky voice, raised a few decibels for his benefit, as he stood in a moonlit alley off Bleeker Street, lighting a fourth Gitanes off the third.

Took you long enough. Turek ground the unsmoked cigarette underfoot and retreated deeper into the brick-walled passage, ducking behind an artfully arranged jumble of old wooden pallets. He crouched, rather than knelt, so as to keep the knees of his new black Dolce & Gabbana jeans from coming into contact with the grimy concrete.

The crack-crack-crack of Galiana’s stilettos grew louder, underscored by thudding from the big, multi-buckled boots worn by the guy she’d been rubbing up against at The Fallout Shelter around the corner on Macdougal. Fallout was a teeming, murky, screaming-loud little joint with cinderblock walls that drew a punk-goth clientele of which Galiana’s take-out du jour, who’d introduced himself as Oxy, was drearily typical: swastika neck tattoo, studded motorcycle jacket, striped stovepipe pants, the clown boots, and chopped-up lampblack hair that had been waxed and sprayed into a calcified semblance of disarray.

Oxy and Galiana had been tossing them back for about an hour—Irish whiskey for him and silver bullets for her, both on her tab—when she whispered something in his ear while molding his hand to the crotch of her low-rise spandex booty shorts.

The mind is subtle, she liked to say. The cock is not.

She’d caught Turek’s eye, smiled, and gave him a little nod. He’d drained his Booker’s Manhattan, bit the cherry off the stem, laid a fifty on the bar, and made his way to this, her favorite alley in the Village...